


Another Angel

by akmyers



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, F/F, Fantasy, Lesbian Relationship, Lesbians, Romance, Short Story, wlw, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29588946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akmyers/pseuds/akmyers
Summary: content warning: mentions of death, mass shooting, alcoholism, and suicideFinding love is hard no matter what stage of life you're in...
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Another Angel

The first time I see her is at the museum. I've never been much of a patron of the arts, and I don't know what possessed me to go besides it was Free Friday and I was getting tired of staring at the wall of my apartment. Getting out seemed like the thing to do.

She's standing in front of a painting in this month's featured exhibition, some local artist or another's work, wearing a dark green wool trench coat. Her hair is straight out of a Botticelli painting, and the track lighting mounted to better illuminate the artwork sets it ablaze. Her hair against the color of her coat and the way the coat nips in at her waist before gently settling over her hips is striking. I can't take my eyes off her. I want to talk to her. I even take the first step, but I chicken out. I always chicken out. It's been a major theme throughout my life.

Instead I stride over the painting a few spots over from the one she's looking at like it's where I intended to go all along. It's a landscape, a river running through a forest with a clear blue sky and sunbeams streaming through green leaves. It's vibrant and beautiful, but it pales in comparison to her.

The second time I see her is the following Monday at the coffee shop around the corner from my building. They make an amazing peppermint mocha, and at this point I'd gotten in the habit of stopping by two or three times a week as a way to get out of the apartment and actually get a bit of exercise. This particular day I decided I wanted to indulge in a pastry as well, and I sat down in a corner to enjoy my coffee and almond croissant.

I'm staring down at my phone not really seeing or doing anything in particular when a shadow falls over my table. I look up and there she is. She's wearing the coat from the museum, and a black skirt pokes out underneath it. Dangling silver bars hang from her ears and jiggle as she moves her head. Her eyes are a blue that borders on grey, like the stormy ocean near where I grew up, and they turn up ever so slightly, something that's emphasized by her winged eyeliner. That coppery hair is pulled up on top of her head in some sort of elaborate bun today instead of hanging wild and loose down her back. My own is pulled back in a low ponytail, and I'm sure the pieces around my face are frizzy. I'm suddenly aware of the fact that I'm not wearing any makeup and I might as well still be in my pajamas. The feelings of inadequacy are enough of a shock to my system to get me to stop staring.

"Hi," she says. Her voice is like sunlight on those first warm, early days of summer.

"Hi," I repeat and cringe internally.

"Have I seen you around? You look familiar."

 _Play it cool_ , I tell myself. "Uh, yeah, maybe. I live around here." Not as cool as I could have been...

"Hmm..."

I see my opportunity and seize it. "Hey, were you at the museum on Friday?" I ask like maybe it just clicked in my mind that she looks familiar too.

"Yeah! I went to check out the local artist exhibition."

"Hey, me too!"

"It's really cool that they do that. Do you mind if I join you?" she asks and nods at the empty chair across from me. "I'm new in town, and I haven't had a chance to meet very many people yet."

"Go right ahead!" I'm smiling so hard my cheeks are going to start aching.

She sits down, and we talk about everything. Her name is Charlotte. I roll her name around in my mouth like it's a fine wine, and it feels like rich chocolate on my tongue. She grew up in a small town in the midwest, but she always dreamed of escaping to a big city. Her parents were heartbroken when she left for the coast for college. She has three sisters, and they were all close growing up, having slumber parties in the living room and whispering secrets to each other in the dark after lights-out. She's been here a week, and she starts her new job next week. She's had fun adjusting and exploring, but she's looking forward to getting back to work. I learn she's older than I am by almost a decade, but it doesn't show at all. She's more youthful than I am, all sparkling eyes and quick, spritely laugh. Her smile is just a touch lopsided which is so endearing I could cry, and I know she won't be here long. Ones like her never stick around, but right now I try to let myself believe otherwise.

I must startle when I check the time on my phone and see that I've been here for nearly two and a half hours because she says, "I'm sorry. Am I keeping you?"

I assure her that she's not. That's the beauty of being unemployed- but I don't tell her that. I just hadn't realized how much time had gone by. Time flies when you're having fun and all that.

She smiles, and I want to live in it, to bask in the glow of her shining face forever and ever.

My heart soars as she asks if she can see me again.

I tell her yes in no uncertain terms.

The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth times I see her are all dates.

After our first date- we both agreed not to count running into each other at the coffee shop- we hold hands and walk down the busy sidewalk until it's time for us to part ways. I offer to walk her the rest of the way back to her building, but she laughs and tells me not to be silly. She lives around the corner and two more blocks down, and she smiles and assures me she can make it home from here. I'm starting to feel very silly for even thinking of suggesting it, but then she leans in and kisses me on the cheek.

"But it's very sweet of you to offer," she says into my ear. Her voice is like sun-warmed honey.

We part, and I watch her cross the street and disappear amongst the crowd before heading up to my apartment. I open a bottle of wine and pour myself a glass, toasting my good fortune and sitting down on the couch to savor the moment. I look around at the mostly empty room and my bare walls. Maybe I should get some curtains or art or a houseplant or something. I drink glass after glass until the bottle is empty and my eyelids are heavy, and I fall asleep on the couch.

Our second date is in the middle of a sunny afternoon. We meet up earlier in the day this time because she has a work thing in the evening. I want to ask what kind of work thing, but I don't want to seem nosy. It finally feels like spring, so we get ice cream and walk around the park hand in hand until we find a vacant bench. A huge tree gives us shade as we sit and lick our cones and talk.

I ask about her job. She works in marketing. She wanted to be a writer, but this pays better. She doesn't mind it so much. "But if I'd known I was going to be doing it forever, I probably would have picked a different career." Her smile is sad around the edges.

I tell her I don't think she'll be doing it forever. I can't imagine anyone doing any marketing in heaven. She laughs, and the sadness fades away. I ask what she likes to write.

"Poetry, mostly. Some short stories. I have an idea for a novel, but really I haven't written anything since my creative writing class in college," she confesses.

I say, "Well, maybe you should."

She smiles, and it's blinding. "Maybe I should," she agrees before kissing me.

It's soft and sweet, and she tastes like strawberry ice cream and hope. I think about how I would do anything to keep kissing her, but when she pulls away I let her go. She tucks a lock of stray hair behind my ear and asks what I do with all my free time. There's no judgement for being unemployed, just curiosity and maybe a touch of envy.

"A little of this, a little of that," I demure. I can't just tell her that I lay around all day waiting for the liquor store to open. Instead I tell her about how I went to school for culinary arts- even if I neglect to tell her that I ended up dropping out- and have always wanted to try my hand at being a pastry chef. She listens to me go on as if enraptured, all smiling nods and thoughtful questions. I don't understand how anyone can be so perfect.

Eventually it's time for her to go. She kisses me again, firmer this time but just as sweet, and says she'll call me later. I wave goodbye as she walks away and stop to pick up a bottle of wine on my way home.

The next time we go out, we go to a dance class. I am skeptical when she calls to invite me. I don't dance, I tell her, but she sounds so excited and promises over and over that it'll be fun, so I agree to go.

I meet her outside the studio, and she grabs my hand and pulls me inside after her. It's the most fun I've had in I don't even know how long.

The instructor doesn't insist that we partner up with men like I'd been expecting. He teaches us some basic steps and how to combine them in different ways, and soon we're flying across the floor together not paying any mind to the other students around us.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I do dance.

Spinning and twirling with Charlotte in my arms feels like the closest I'll ever get to flying, and I'm desperate to preserve the feeling. Our lips crash together so often that I stop keeping count.

Afterwards I'm out of breath and the happiest I can ever remember being. Charlotte's face is flushed, her hair is falling out of the braid she'd put it in, and she's giggling. She suggests that we grab a drink at the bar next door, and of course I agree.

When she says, "You really like wine," after I order my third glass, it's not a judgement, just an observation. It still makes me self-conscious though, and I try to laugh it off. I end up not finishing that glass, and we leave after she finishes nursing her one mixed drink.

Outside the bar she pulls me aside and kisses me. She kisses me again and again until I'm breathless and giddy, and when she pulls away this time I follow her pulling her back into me. My hands are on the swell of her hips, and it's all I can do to keep from grinding my pelvis against hers. Her hands roam my back, and I gasp when her tongue brushes my lips.

When we finally come up for air the streetlights cast intriguing shadows across her face, and she's so lovely I want to weep. I'm expecting her to ask me to come home with her. I don't even try to hide my disappointment when she tells me that it's getting late and she has to work tomorrow, but it's easier to accept when she kisses me again.

"Will you cook dinner for me? The night after tomorrow?" she asks.

"Of course," I promise. "You have my address. Why don't you come over after work?"

She agrees. I tell her I'll text her tomorrow with menu ideas, but she stops me and tells me that she'll love whatever I want to make. I say that I'll still text her tomorrow, and then I press my lips to hers, a simple, chaste goodnight kiss.

"You're beautiful," she whispers and kisses me on the cheek.

I float home and forget to stop to grab another bottle of wine. It's fine though. I don't mind the sleepless night. I replay our night together over and over in my head until morning.

The next day I go to the store as soon as it opens and buy curtains and a potted ivy plant. I forget that you need rods to hang the curtains on, so I end up going back to the store, and I also get a set of sheets. I can't remember when I last washed the set I have, and it seems like a better idea to just start fresh. Besides, I'm pretty sure functional adults have one than one set of sheets.

I spend the rest of the morning mounting the curtain rods and hanging up the new curtains, one set over the window in the living room and one set over the window in my bedroom. They're gauzy and light blue-grey, and they remind me of Charlotte's eyes. They don't do much to keep the light out, but they look pretty. I change my sheets and toss the old ones in the closet. I'll wash them another day. The potted ivy goes in the middle of my tiny kitchen table. It doesn't quite look homey, but it at least looks like someone lives here and is trying.

Noon rolls around, and I'm getting ready to text Charlotte when I realize I haven't actually decided what I want to make for dinner tomorrow night. I think for a moment and settle on vegetable lasagna. My grandmother loved my veggie lasagna.

 _Veggie lasagna tomorrow?_ I text Charlotte.

She responds right away with _yum!!!!_ and the heart-eyes emoji.

I make my grocery list and pin it to the fridge so I don't forget it when I go shopping tomorrow. Then I grab the bottle of bleach from under the kitchen sink and clean the bathroom. It's been more than a while since the last time I scrubbed the toilet and tub, and it takes a long time to get everything as clean as it should be. I flip on the fan when the stench of bleach gets to be too much and put glass cleaner on the grocery list to help take care of my spotty mirror.

Then there's nothing left to do until tomorrow. I look around the apartment. It's nothing special or too nice, but I think it's looking good. It's definitely looking better than it has since I first got here. The bleach smell from the bathroom is starting to fade, and there's a couple of bottles of beer in the fridge with my name on them. Not my favorite drink, but I neglected to stop at the liquor store while I was out, and I don't feel up to another trip.

Lasagna is a pain in the ass to make. I'm lazy, but I fully believe that anything worth doing is worth doing right, and that's what I'm currently simmering my own red sauce, stirring my own bechamel, and thinking that maybe I should have made my own noodles too. Not much to be done about that now though. Maybe next time.

It takes hours, but both sauces are finally ready, the vegetables have been sauted, and the noodles have been boiled to that perfect al dente texture. I layer everything, careful not to tear the noodles and mindful that each layer is even. I pop the dish in the oven and set the timer on my phone for 40 minutes. It's a long time to wait, and the liquor store was closed earlier when I went grocery shopping, so I step out quickly and get a couple of bottles of wine. I'm not sure what kind of wine Charlotte likes, so I grab a chardonnay and a pinot noir.

I get back to my apartment with 15 minutes left on the timer, and she texts me as I set the bottles down on the table. She just got off work and is on her way over. I should be pulling the dish out of the oven right as she arrives. Perfect.

I put the chardonnay in the fridge. I think about opening the pinot and having a glass while I wait but decide against it. It'll be better to wait and open it together over delicious, fresh-from-the-oven lasagna. Then I change my mind and pour myself a glass. I think about pouring a glass for her as well. It might look lovely and welcoming that way, but I think it might also look presumptuous or too staged, so I don't.

Just as I'm finishing my wine my buzzer sounds. I push the button that opens the door and check the timer. Five minutes left.

The knock on the door startles me even though I'm expecting it. I open it, and she's there, like an angel. She has on a dress nearly the same color as the coat she was wearing the first few times I saw her and a pair of black pumps. Her earrings are dark green stones, maybe emeralds, and her hair is loose today, tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. She lights up when she sees me.

"Wow," I say, "you look amazing."

"So do you." She kisses me as she comes in.

My hair is still pulled back in a low ponytail, but I made my effort with my outfit today, a black blouse and fitted dark-colored jeans, and put on some eyeliner and mascara.

She toes her shoes off by the door and looks around.

"I love your curtains. That's a pretty color."

"Oh, thanks. I was just thinking about getting new ones." It's not entirely a lie. I was thinking about getting new curtains, and I did.

"How long until dinner is ready? I worked through lunch, and I'm starving." The glint in her eye tells me dinner is not the only thing she's starving for.

"Any minute. Why don't you have a seat? Do you want a glass of wine? I have pinot noir, but if you prefer white I have a chardonnay in the fridge."

"I'll have whatever you're having," she says, making her way to the kitchen where she sees the already-open bottle. "Getting started without me?"

"I wanted to make sure it was okay before serving it," I bluff and grab the other wine glass out of my cabinet. The apartment came with two, but I've only ever used one at a time until now.

She claps like an excited child when the timer goes off. We're treated to the tantalizing aroma of my masterpiece when I open the oven and pull out the dish. She's disappointed that we have to let it set for a few minutes, but we chat a bit while we wait. I ask about her day, and she tells me about work. She asks about mine, and I tell her about how real lasagna doesn't have ricotta in it.

When I'm satisfied that the lasagna has sat long enough, I get up and pour myself another glass of wine before dishing us up. It's perfect though. The texture of the noodles, the consistency of the veggies, the scent of the sauces mingling. My chest swells with pride as I place the plate in front of her.

"This looks amazing!" she says as she loads up her fork, followed by a muffled, "Oh my God, this tastes amazing!" when she takes her first bite.

We eat our lasagna, and I pour myself another glass of wine. Taking a drink gives me something to do while she moans repeatedly over how good the food is in that way that hits me right in the lower part of my belly. Soon the bottle is empty, and she's still on her first glass. Her plate is empty though, and she's giving me a look like she's still hungry but she's done with eating.

"You are an excellent chef," she all but purrs.

"Thanks. It's nothing really. Lasagna isn't hard, it just takes a long time."

"Let me help you with the dishes."

"Sure," I agree, but we don't make it to the dishes.

As soon as we're standing, her lips are on mine. The flame in my lower belly kindled by her moans during dinner bursts into an inferno, and I know I will do anything to have this.

She has one hand buried in my hair and one hand on my lower back. Our breasts press together, and my hands run up and down her back, caressing and pulling her closer into me. She tastes faintly of veggie lasagna and cherry lip balm, and she smells like musky vanilla. It's strongest just behind her ears, and I nuzzle that spot, kissing and licking and gently nipping, as she gasps. Her chest swells with air against mine, and I can't help myself. I pull the hem of her full skirt up and slide a hand up the bare skin of her outer thigh to her hip. She thrusts her pelvis into mine and slides an insistent hand under my blouse and up the expanse of my back. It catches on the band of my bra, and she fumbles with the closure until it comes undone.

We part long enough for me to grab her by the wrist and drag her behind me to the bedroom. There it's a flurry of clothing and hands. We fall into my bed with its fresh sheets together and fall into each other. Her gasps and moans are a symphony I'm composing. Her fingernails leave burning trails across my flesh.

Afterwards we lay in my bed satisfied and sweaty. Her head is resting on my chest, and I stroke her spun-copper hair while she traces lazy circles on my hip with her fingertips. That's when she asks the question I've been anticipating and dreading.

"How did you die?"

She says it like she's simply asking my favorite color or if I prefer pancakes or waffles. My heart skips a beat. I hope she didn't notice.

"I'm not sure," I lie. "I went to sleep and woke up here."

"Mmmm..." She leans up and props her head up on her hand. She's looking at me now, and I feel the sudden compulsion to cover myself up. "I think I was in a car accident," she continues.

She goes on to tell me about how her youngest sister, Katie, was home visiting for a weekend and went to a friend's house for a party. There was drinking, a lot of drinking, and Katie called Charlotte in the middle of the night for a ride home. Charlotte was so proud of her for not drinking and driving, and she pulled on sweatpants and a jacket and went to get her.

"I pulled up to the house, and Katie was waiting outside already. She climbed in the Bronco, and I was asking her about how the party was as she buckled up. I pulled out onto the road, and she was telling me all about this guy... Brandon, I think was his name... and how much she liked him, and she thought he liked her, but he was there with some other girl they'd gone to high school with. I glanced over at her for just a second, and then suddenly there was bright light through the windshield. That's the last thing I remember, I think."

I listen silently, staring at the ceiling as she talks. I don't have any words of condolence. It doesn't feel like anything I would say would be enough.

"I'm glad that's the last thing I remember. I think that means I went quickly and didn't suffer. I just wish I knew if Katie was okay or not. I haven't seen her here. Are there other places like this, do you know? Everyone I've asked hasn't known."

She's been watching my face for reactions, and when I turn to meet her gaze, her eyes are sad.

I try to channel all the emotions I can't feel and say, "I don't know..." My voice is thin and soft like a ghost.

She nods, more to herself than to me, and lays back down.

"How long have you been here?" she asks.

I managed to skirt the question last time she asked, but I won't be that lucky this time.

"I'm not sure. Time kind of runs together."

And I'm not lying- time does run together here, especially without the benefit of a job or school to provide some sort of routine- but I am exaggerating. We have calendars. We have clocks. Shit, my apartment came with both. I still have my phone. Or at least it's a clone of my phone minus all the contacts and social media apps. The day I woke up in this bed was the day after the day I died. But when you're an unemployed, alcoholic wreck who can't escape that even in death, it messes with you.

"I suppose you'll be moving on soon," she says. "John, uh, my boss, he says that people usually don't stick around for more than a year, two max. Well, unless they're a suicide or some great tragedy. He says that the more traumatic the death, the longer it takes to process and move on."

I nod. I don't have the strength to tell her I've been here much longer than two years. Instead I say, "Yeah, that's what I've heard."

"John was a mass shooting," she says. "He's been here for almost five years."

The silence that follows is awkward. I press a kiss to her forehead to try to ease it, but it's going to take a lot more than a gentle forehead kiss to dispel the building tension between us, and I cannot bring myself to tell her the truth no matter how accepting or understanding she thinks she can be.

She sits up and stretches. "I think I should get going. I have to go in early tomorrow morning."

I don't bring up that tomorrow is Saturday and she told me she doesn't work weekends. Instead I smile and draw the blankets up to cover my nakedness while I watch her slide on her dress.

"I'll text you tomorrow," I tell her.

"Sure," she responds while smoothing her hair.

She smiles at me, but it's different this time. It's not as bright. It doesn't reach her eyes.

I wrap the blanket around me and move to get up to see her out. I wish she wanted to stay the night, but I'm not about to throw a tantrum over it. I can at least get a good night kiss before she goes though.

"Oh, don't worry about it. I can find my way out."

She makes no move to come any closer to me. I settle back into the bed and smile to hide my disappointment. I don't insist on walking her to the door. I don't tell her I need to lock up anyway. I just watch her leave. When I call out, "Talk to you tomorrow," there's no response.

I lie awake all night. I don't go lock the door behind her. I don't turn out the light. I stare at the ceiling and replay how wonderful she was, how perfect her lips felt on mine, how her hair caught the light as she threw her head back, how the curve of her waist felt under my hand. I replay every moment and savor all of it.

In the morning the dish of cold lasagna is sitting on the stovetop, and our plates are still on the table where we left them. I text her around noon, but she doesn't respond.

The next day I call and leave a voicemail in my friendliest tone telling her what a nice time I had and how I hope I can see her again soon.

I text again the following day. It's not much, just a simple, _Thinking about you. Hope everything's okay._

I'm still laying on the couch hours later when my phone dings from where it rests on my belly. I fumble for it and swipe open the message.

_I had a good time with you too. I've had a great time getting to know you and spending time with you, but I feel like you're hiding something from me. You're wonderful and beautiful, but I don't see myself being with someone who holds back from me._

I don't respond. There's nothing to say. I drop my phone on the floor, and it lands on the carpet with a soft thud. I don't see myself sullying someone as gorgeous and sparkling as her with my bullshit. She deserves better than that. I was a fool who for a brief moment thought that I could have something good, but I can't. Even now, even in death, in whatever weird afterlife limbo waiting room I'm existing in, I can't have anything good, and it's my fault. I have only myself to blame.

It's better this way, I tell myself. It's silly to think we ever could have been together. She'll move on sooner than later, so it's probably best to get this over with now. She'll go on to be another angel. I can picture her with smiling eyes and face uplifted singing in a heavenly choir. She deserves no less than heaven.

And I'll be here. There's no moving on for me.


End file.
